That Autumn Night
by enigmatic darling
Summary: One autumn night. A bench. A dirty yellow light. Two people. And two books that reveal everything. Future. One-Shot. Literati.


Title: That Autumn Night

Disclaimer: I do not own Gilmore Girls, the characters, or the WB. If I did, how do _you_ think Season Four would've gone? ;)

A/N: After you read, there might be some confusion about Jess' 'speech'. Just so you know, it was written after Jess' appearances in February. I had no idea what happened after.

Dedicated to everyone who has reviewed this story at SH. You're wonderful.

It was the crisp, fresh feeling in the air that had driven him out of his apartment that autumn night. The streets were lit up with lights, a glow of yellow against the sidewalk. He was dressed in an old warm coat, buttoned all the way except for the top. A book was stuffed inside his back pocket, and his gloves warmed his hands as they sat inside his coat.

He was twenty seven, working at a coffee shop to his shame, making only enough money to barely supply him for his needs. His apartment was small; one bedroom, a bathroom and a tiny kitchen in the corner. It overcrowded with books and cds, piled on top of one another against a bare wall. Cash and other mementos spilled across his dresser. And with every step you took, a creaky sound disturbed you.

He had failed to prove everyone wrong; ended up exactly like Stars Hollow expected. He was the loser everyone predicated, the jerk they knew he was, and the doomed failure he was already crossing.

He let out a deep, disappointed, aggravated sigh as he quickened his pace. He reached inside his pocket, digging for his pack of cigarettes. _'Screw it,' _he thought. He realized when he pulled one out and lit the cigarette that it had been a couple years old. A pack of cigarettes he had yet to finish. It was softer to the touch as he held it in his hand and blew a ring of smoke.

The cigarette burned slowly in his hand, a fiery orange-red. He tapped it a few times to blow the ash away, and then brought it to his mouth for the last time. He let it fall between his fingers shortly after; he pressed the front of his shoe to the cigarette, crushing it out of pure frustration.

He was a poor, deserted bastard in the loneliest city in the world. When he was seventeen, he had done anything he could to avoid trouble. Real trouble, that is. Even when he got himself fully deep in danger zone with Rory Gilmore, he hid himself to spark conflict.

It was ironic, really. The more he tried to dodge his problems, the more he sunk into them, simultaneously creating more. And every problem he had attempted to leave behind had caught up with him, burying him into a hole six feet deep.

He slowed down his pace as he drew another cigarette out from his coat pocket. He fingered it between his index and middle finger. He approached a bench, noticing someone already sitting there. Out of unwilling politeness he asked if he could take a seat. The girl let out a quiet 'mmhm' as she continued her reading. '_Who the hell reads under a dirty, yellow lamp light 11:00 at night?' _he thought.

He rolled his eyes, took a seat, and lit the cigarette. He took a whiff and then blew out the smoke slowly. He continued this routine for quite a while, until it burned out and had to be thrown to the ground.

Just as he pulled out a new one, a voice had interrupted him. "Don't," she said, not taking an eye off her book.

"Excuse me?"

"Don't smoke another one," she answered with a cough.

Another eye roll.

"Whatever." He brought it to his mouth and held it there as he reached inside his pocket for his lighter. This task was interrupted by a hand pulling the cigarette out of his mouth.

She threw it into the street.

"Maybe from the small town you're from it's okay to do that. Here in New York, things are different. You don't go messing with a guy's cigarette," he says, irritated, already reaching for another one.

She snorts at his comment. "A true New York native. Black lungs and a rude mouth."

He rolls his eyes for the third time. "Very original," he replies. He lights his third--fourth cigarette. He smokes it in peace, until the woman at his side catches his eye. He smirks and blows the smoke in her way.

She slams the book shut, just as he turns away, feigning innocence. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

He shrugs to her annoyance. She growls a bit and finds her page again.

He tries to ignore her and mind his own business. But curiosity gets the better of him.

"What book are you reading?"

"None of your business," she says through clenched teeth.

He takes action and moves her hand a bit to tip the back flap up. He rolls his eyes. "Figures."

"What?" she asks, distracted, yet again from her novel.

He faces ahead, again with his cheek facing her. The light is much too dim to reveal much of their features.

"It's likely that a girl like you would be reading Wuthering Heights," he replies. He breathes in the gray smoke.

"There's nothing wrong with this classic novel," she retorts. "Like you know anything about great literature. This book is timeless."

"Oh, don't start making your assumptions," he says, ignoring her worship ramble.

"Hypocrite."

"Beg your pardon?"

She sighs loudly. "You're making one about me, aren't you?" He says nothing and returns to his cigarette. The two sit in silence, annoyed but so strangely intrigued.

"I bet you'd love to live in such a passionate environment like Wuthering Heights. You're so lonely, aren't you? You take your books and you live your life through characters that lead more interesting lives," he says dryly.

"You went to an Ivy League School and graduated and had a sky full of prestigious plans, but ended up moving to New York with a job that only earns enough to cover your rent. You're all alone, because you're still hung up on some asshole that you haven't heard from in a thousand years…" He beats his foot against the dead cigarette.

"I bet when your relatives call you say a bunch of shit like _This is all I've ever wanted _or _I don't know why I wanted to be [insert dream job here] in the first place_. And you read your fucking book here in the dark, out on the street, because you think it makes you slightly better than the rest of the lonely people of New York. At least you aren't all alone at home," he spats.

That's about right.

He doesn't understand how it happened; how the painful words had jumped out of him and cut through her.

She stares at the side of his face, silent, stunned and above all, insulted. "Bastard," she says, standing. Her figure blocks the light. "How dare you make up lies like that! God! You don't even know me! I talk about a book and suddenly you think you know my entire life story. Just because you're so goddamn angry at the world doesn't mean you take it out on strangers."

He rolls his eyes, deadbeat from listening. "Whatever. Go home and cry about your pathetic life."

"Asshole," she mumbles. "I'm leaving."

He watches as she walks away, her shoes making an annoyed sound against the sidewalk. He digs into his pocket for another cigarette, more depressed than he was in the beginning of the night. As he lights his true fifth cigarette, an object on the other side of the bench catches his eye. He bites on the cigarette, creating ash to fall to the ground more frequently so he could examine the object.

A purse.

He sighs loudly and rolls his eyes. (He's done it so much lately, it has now become a natural, automatic habit) Damn woman. He spits out the cigarette and crushes it. He reaches inside the purse and finds her wallet. He scoots over to get a better look at her license.

And when the name is finally unveiled under the light, he nearly falls off the bench.

Underneath the ugly bright yellow, he reads her name again: Lorelai Leigh Gilmore.

"Fuck."

And the inevitable wash of guilt runs through him. _'Nice going, Mariano,' _he thinks to himself. Eight years without seeing her, and he slaps her in the face with insults.

He mentally kicks himself and yearns for a cigarette. But he finds he is too numb to move. He shudders as his own words are repeated in his mind, still lingering in the air.

Maybe he was right.

Another kick.

What now? He had to give it back. Of 'course he did. If she had found out she didn't have it, she would come back here, find him looking through her purse, or call the police to make sure she would be able to retrieve it.

Like he needed that tonight.

He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. What would he do, leave it here? No, he couldn't do that. Someone could pick this up, and if they ever met again, which was a one out of a million chance, she would assume he took it. He had to bring it to her.

And then this would all be gone, right? He would have never seen her, insulted her, and found her purse. And she would never know who the hypocritical bastard who smoked in her face ever was. Right?

Wrong.

Because he couldn't forget and he couldn't let it go. He had guessed her life and smoked to annoy her and was silently intrigued by her. And he didn't want to be another story or New York jerk to her. He had to let her know. It wasn't fair to let her go by and let it be another anecdote, while he was left with a scene between them, literally eating him alive.

And so he reached into his back pocket, and pulled out a paperback book. He sighs and nods to himself.

He sticks it inside the purse.

-

He takes a cab, thankful that she doesn't live very far. A couple of blocks, but if he's in a car, there's no chance of running into her. He ignores the cab driver, who's eyes keep eyeing the purse at his side. He can read his thoughts, knowing exactly what he's thinking. A purse and a guy? There was no question.

At the end of the ride he gives the cab driver a couple of bucks, which happens to be a little short. "Here," he says, throwing the pack of cigarettes to him.

The cab driver stares at the half-pack for a second and sighs, giving in. "You're damn lucky I'm nice," he says with an accent.

"Yeah, all right," he replies.

-

He walks into the apartment building and takes the elevator up to the third floor. A whiff of smoke, rotten eggs, and various bathroom smells fill the air. He takes breaths less frequently.

He slows down and becomes quieter as he turns the corner to her apartment door. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath as he drops the purse softly in front of the door, and knocks twice.

Seconds later, he's in the elevator, suddenly wishing he hadn't given away those cigarettes. He can't even think straight.

He has come to the bottom floor, and now he is running. Running, running… so fast. Away from her, away from his problems, back to his empty apartment… hoping for nothing to catch up with him.

-

She opens the door and takes a look around the hall, wondering who it was. She looks below her and spots her purse. She smiles in relief as she picks it up. As she sets it down onto her coffee table, she notices the difference in weight. She sits down on her couch and pours the contents out. She brushes each familiar object by until a second novel is recognized.

She takes the book in hand, curious. The title allowed her heart to pace up, even when she isn't entirely sure. She can't help but think, _'Who else?'_

She flips through the book and turns frozen still as she notices the familiar writing between the margins. A realization.

She takes a deep breath and sets the book on her lap.

Oliver Twist.

-

Rory Gilmore would dwell on it for a month before she decided to get her life back together. She moved back to Hartford, apologized to everyone she knew for leaving, and all was right in the world. She attended cocktail parties hosted by her grandparents, and they would ask about New York. And she would always tell the story of some hypocritical New York bastard, who had smoked in her face and insulted her.

Her audience would laugh, as would she. But when the laughter disappeared, and there was only the sound of light music and cheery voices, she would feel so hollow and numb.

There was one, small detail she left out: _He was right._

Please R&R.


End file.
